Halahoyi, Africans! Something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air.

It's the lovely river sylph

that knows the secrets of heaven.

The lion of blackness still roars,

speaks in a voice of thunder.

It says this will be a year of wonders

that will strike us between the eyes.

Celebration began before fighting ceased,

but there, ever eager to seize control,

sits the donkey driving the wagon,

I swear by my shades, and my father who sired me.

The lion of blackness still roars

from the midst of our black nations:

let's seek the truth from those above,

those long dead and the recent deceased.

It says “Let's come back” though we don't believe it,

luminous places terrify us:

we heard the roar of the word of God,

brought by mocking sorcerers.

In the land of our fathers and of our shades

they set us at odds with God, our own shade;

but those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

For a long time, men, we occasionally see,

for a long time we hear reports of the slain.

Our people were seized and sent off to war,

with the word of God as their battle cry.

What's this?

“We're British: the Kaffirs can die!

We'll rip the candy from your mouths.

We didn't hurt you: we're British!

A baby baboon's no stranger to misery.”

Do you hear?

God is the toy of black behaviour,

paganism's rampant.

Alas, black home, the lid's on your pot,

your fathers’ country rumbles and trembles.

Behold the wonders we witness!

All of you know just what I mean.

Now what do you say? The country's at war:

behold the afflictions, the death of our families.

Peace! Awu!

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our country.

Today Africa yields no milk.

Is there no one among the elders

to bear this report to the One on High,

to burn his firstborn son as sacrifice?

Peace!